


Genitaylor, Dick Destroyer

by CPericardium



Category: Worm - Wildbow
Genre: Alt-Power Taylor Hebert, Gen, Sexiness, ddd, genital control
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-02-17 09:10:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13073724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CPericardium/pseuds/CPericardium
Summary: Armed only with the power of sex, Taylor Hebert navigates the Brockton Bay underworld.Co-written by Chartic (of Cauldron Quest™ fame) and me.





	1. Genitaylor

**Author's Note:**

> Chart and I were both in need of some quick dough. We figured we could cash in on the popularity of Worm erotica by writing an altpower fic featuring lewd genital-controlling!Taylor as she fixes Brockton Bay with sexy hijinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with audiobook by our dear friend PitaEnigma: https://youtu.be/kyH_N0FMx-E
> 
> Thanks Pita!

                     

**Chapter 1: Genitaylor**

“And what do you think you’re doing?” 

At her voice, the three men looked up. If their shaved heads weren’t enough evidence of their allegiance, the black man at their feet confirmed it. 

They eyed Taylor with suspicion, and no small measure of lust. 

She stood at the head of the alley, clad in a costume that wouldn’t have looked out of place at a strip club—a masquerade mask, latex gloves to her elbows, and a glossy black bustier with a matching panty set that left little to the imagination. 

Yeah, she was pretty cold. 

But the night-time chill wasn’t the only thing making her skin prickle. Even from this distance, with a dumpster obscuring her view, she could make out marks of the violence that had been visited on the black man’s face. The bruising. 

The blood. 

She bit her lip, forced herself to breathe evenly through her nose. _In and out._  

 _That’s what she said._  

“What’s it to you, whore?” challenged one of the skinheads. 

“Nothing,” she replied. As she walked towards them, she threw a little sway into her steps. 

Too shy to pull off _sultry_ , too gawky to pull off _coquettish_ , she’d harboured no illusions about becoming a seductress overnight.  

But she’d also realised she had assets that weren’t C-cups or a butt like a Newton’s cradle: her height, her hair, her slenderness. They added up to a package she could make work. At least as long as she needed it to. 

She smiled in what she hoped was a coy way. “I just figured that you’d be more interested in doing _something else_ than beating up some _guy_.” 

Now it was a question of standing at just the right angle, making sure the light accented her admittedly meagre curves while cloaking the rest of her in shadow. Mystery had its own allure, didn’t it? _Didn’t it?_  

As if noticing her fear, they stepped over the unconscious man on the ground and started for her. She released the breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. 

“You got a name?” the same skinhead asked, his voice gruffer than it had been. Posturing. 

Two could play at that game. She turned her head to the side demurely, tossing her long black curls over a shoulder. “Call me Double D.” 

“Lot smaller than D’s, babe.” 

The other two chuckled, eyeing her chest as well. Taylor let the jab wash over her; she was watching the fronts of their trousers just as intently, and tents spoke louder than words. 

“Should I take that as a rejection?” she asked, knowing the answer. 

His grin grew predatory. “ _Hell_ no. Not much to grab, maybe, but I think we could have some real fun with you.” 

She could sense the testosterone surging through their veins, could feel the musk gathering thickly in the air. Her eyes stung behind the lenses of her mask. 

Her hand slid into her knapsack. 

The men groaned, fingers pausing at belt buckles. They probably assumed she’d brought protection. 

In a way, they were right. 

“Trust me,” Taylor said, when she had her remote out. “This won’t be fun for any of us.” 

She aimed it at the closest Empire member and clicked the bright red button. 

There was no sound, but the man’s whole body locked up as if tased. He collapsed, whimpering and scrabbling at his junkular area. 

In the gloom, Taylor swore that she saw a charred meatball tumble out of his trouser leg and roll under the dumpster. She would never be able to have pasta with her father again. 

Trying to focus on something besides the bile rising in her throat, she rounded on the other two skinheads where they had froze. She took aim, the other man’s crotch firmly in her crosshairs. One press of a button and she brought him down screaming too.

She winced; the screaming was always the worst part.

The last of them started backing up, only to trip over his own feet and crash to the ground. Caught between her and a hard brick wall, he babbled out pleas.

“Please!” he begged. “Please, please, _please_ , anything but that—” 

Her face softened. She lowered her hand. “All right.”

He breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank _god_.” 

“Just kidding.” 

Then his nuts exploded.


	2. Geniteacher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by Charred Dick and Perineum.

The media called her Siren.

She preferred it to what she had come up with. Much more oblique—Dick Destroyer really didn’t leave any wiggle room for what she did and what she was.

Not that any of this mattered. It was just a name.

At lunch, she ate in the cafeteria instead of her usual bathroom cubicle. Emma didn’t bother her half as much since the day her clitoris blew up. She nibbled at her hotdog and clam sandwich and tried to ignore the glares coming from the popular table. It couldn’t be any worse than what she was putting herself through now.

She had been holding back all day, trying to get through Monday like a normal student. But she was starting to break.

She couldn’t stop zeroing in on bulges, breasts and booty. Her power processed crotches as they passed, dissolving them into a series of known equations before whispering to her all the ways she could literally dissolve them.

She dropped her head to the table with a loud _thunk_. Other capes got to fly, or be super strong, or shoot lasers. She got to wreck reproductive organs.

“Hey, you’re Taylor, right?”

She lifted her head and locked eyes with a tall, brown-haired girl she’d never met.

“Dicks! I mean, yes!” She clapped a hand over her mouth.

The girl gave her an odd expression, but shook it off. “Anyone taking this seat?”

Her smile looked like it took effort. Taylor empathised intensely.

“Uhh... yes! I mean! No, no one’s sitting here. Unless you’re going to.”

Surprisingly, the girl sat down.

“That’s an… interesting sandwich you have there.” The girl nodded at the unlikely mixture of ingredients comprising Taylor’s sandwich: clams—sans shells, of course, a sliced hot dog, and a generous dollop of mayonnaise.

She shrugged. “My dad isn’t a fan, but it’s everything I like between two pieces of bread.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s cool…”

They lapsed back into silence.

Taylor took a bite out of her sandwich. “It’s good,” she muttered, feeling like she needed to defend her taste.

“If you say so.” The girl paused again. Then, as if remembering manners, she stiffly extended a hand. “So, hi. I’m Charlotte.”

“Hi Charlotte.”

After a beat, Charlotte retracted her untouched hand. “I think I’ve seen you around,” she said, when no further conversation seemed forthcoming. “I, uh, I guess I never got the chance to talk to you before.”

“My locker is on the second floor, five down from the watercooler across the girls’ bathroom,” said Taylor. “If you wanted to talk to me, you could’ve just spoken through the slats every Friday afternoon for the past two months.”

Charlotte's mouth fell open. “Oh. Oh, you—”

“You should’ve been able to smell it down the hall,” she added helpfully.

“I’m sorry,” said Charlotte, visibly upset, taking her hands off the table.

 _For what?_ Taylor frowned. Weaponised feminine products had formed the bulk of her inspiration for a while; she’d enjoyed having a dedicated space to ruminate on their deployment. It was too bad the janitor cleaned it up after that health and safety inspection.  
  
The lunch period proceeded with Charlotte struggling to keep a dialogue afloat, now with some apologetic undercurrent that Taylor didn’t quite understand the reason for.

“Are you always this quiet?” Charlotte asked at last.

“It’s better than screaming.”

Charlotte's face scrunched up. “Screaming?”

With her thoughts on last night, Taylor responded, “I can think of plenty of ways to make you scream.”

The bell rang. Charlotte sprang to her feet and scrambled to clear her tray.

“Sorry, I have to go grab something. See you in class, okay?” She didn’t even wait for Taylor’s response before scurrying off.

Taylor crammed the remains of her food into her mouth and stood. That had been weird, but maybe she was finally starting to make friends. Maybe things were starting to look up.

***

She situated herself at the back of the classroom with a copy of _[PITBBTT](https://i.imgur.com/GDYjdO1.jpg)_ , its lurid cover carefully concealed by a _Triumvirate_ book jacket.

She rapidly realised her mistake. Sure, people wouldn’t give a second thought to a quiet nerd like her perusing a dull biography before class.

But knowing just what was beneath the surface, she couldn’t focus on the words. Her heart pounded at the idea that someone might be able to see the glowing outline of Eidolon’s pectorals, or the silhouette of Alexandria clad in bondage…

LEGEND: _No, I do not spend my every waking hour fantasising about and ranking penises. I’m gay, not a satyromaniac. Do straight men think about breasts all the time?_

INTERVIEWER: _Well—_

LEGEND: _All I'm saying is, healthy people don't obsess over the sexual characteristics of every attractive person they come_

“Hi again.”

She slammed the book shut.

The girl from the cafeteria was pulling up a seat at the desk beside hers. “Um. So is that good?”

Taylor gaped.  
  
“ _Triumvirate,_ ” Charlotte prompted, gesturing at the spine. “I’ve been meaning to check it out for ages but there’s only like one copy in the library and it’s been on loan forever. Maybe when you’re done, I could...”

She trailed off. Taylor simply stared at her, wide-eyed, until the girl awkwardly redirected her gaze to the ceiling.

“Ooookay then.”

She was saved from having to attempt to salvage the conversation by the appearance of their teacher.

“Hey guys, I hope everyone is ready to acquire some sweet, sweet knowledge!”

This was all wrong. Fourth period was not taught by Mr Gladly.

_No no no._

“So I know you expected Mr. Quinlan today, but he's been arrested on the charge of not being cool enough for school! Ha ha!” He chuckled and cocked a fingergun, then sobered. “No but seriously, he’s been arrested. Drugs or something, I’m not supposed to say. In unrelated news, I’m taking over his class for the next few weeks. And we’re starting the Sex and Sexuality unit early.”

A wave of murmurs washed over the room.

Mr. Gladly upended the contents of his canvas bag onto the desk. Condoms, mini-tubes of Oreos, overripe bananas and worksheets.

“Everyone grab a set of learning aids off my desk. One of each! They’re labelled.”

Mr. Gladly’s sack of goodies quickly emptied, until everyone in the room had their own facsimiles of reproductive parts.

"Why are you using Oreos to represent vaginas?" one of her classmates asked, wrinkling his nose at a sticky note on the blue foil.

"I couldn't get the school board to sign off on two hundred fleshlights," explained Mr Gladly.

Taylor found herself nodding. She knew firsthand how expensive specialised equipment could get, even in bulk.

“Also, that’s a common misconception. The vagina is an internal muscular tube. The fleshy external part with all the stupid unnecessary skin-decor your girlfriend will kick you out of bed for nipping is the vulva.” Gingerly, he pinched the side of the sandwich cookie with one hand and started flapping the biscuits to mime his words sideways. “These cookies are the labia. You’ll have to use your imagination.”

Taylor glanced around. As expected, her classmates were goofing off. Boys were fencing with the bananas, girls were giggling over the annotated illustrations on their worksheets.

To her surprise, Charlotte was taking diligent notes—even doodling neat little diagrams on the margins of her composition pad.

 _I should ask if she wants to study anatomy together_ , Taylor thought, smiling in spite of herself.

"—and for you boys—if you want to pleasure a girl without using your Johnson,” Mr Gladly said, working a dental dam over Vulvoreo’s cream-tongued maw, “you gotta be sure to give her the old lickaroo."

He then demonstrated on it with gusto, pausing occasionally to expound on the various techniques he claimed to have studied in college.

Taylor turned away from the sight of her teacher sucking face with his obscene biscuit-based mockery of a ventriloquist’s dummy.

“Now, does everyone have their 'genitals' ready?” Mr. Gladly asked, continuing to use the now thoroughly ravished Vulvoreo to speak. His lips and teeth were speckled with black crumbs. “I want to go over good hygiene practices.”

She could feel the edges of her consciousness start to blur, and it was like her mind encompassed her whole body, concentrating in the parts of her that were low and hot. She shoved that discomfort into the dark space behind her eyes and let it churn violently there, then marshalled the blotches of dull colour and stretched them out into branching threads. She called them G-strings.

On the very tip of each one was an idea.

Occasionally a phallus, but usually an idea.

“—and that’s why you always wash the grundle with regular soap and warm water.”

Gladly’s excited voice faded into the background as Taylor slipped away. Why the hell would they devote this much time to teaching how you could keep these parts of the body clean? There were so many more interesting things that you could do with them.

She could see it now, her mind whizzing in thirty different directions:

_A twist on those fleshlights Gladly had been unable to procure. Or… not a twist, a trap. You think it’s a safe place to stick your dick in but surprise, razor blade tucked inside it like it’s cursed Halloween candy and tonight, it's trick._

_Better yet, something you wouldn’t expect. Slow-acting._ In Taylor’s lab were unmarked tubes of industrial-strength lubricant that she was pretty sure was illegal in most states. When she got home, she would convert that into something beautiful. _Rub it on; by the time it kicks in, it’s too late—everything’s been corroded into cinnamon-flavoured froth._

“Taylor, what are you doing?”

Gladly’s question wrenched her from the trance. She realized now that her body had been moving on autopilot. Smushed banana and crushed Oreo bits were smeared all over her desk. From the quantity, and the expressions of her neighbouring classmates, Taylor realised that it hadn’t only been hers that had wound up victims of this massacre.

“It’s good that you're enthusiastic about this subject,” Gladly said, to stone silence. “But you should save that for the bedroom.”

Taylor looked over at Charlotte.

The other girl stared back at her for several long seconds, before discreetly sliding her desk back, up against the wall.


End file.
